


Freedom's Voice

by DovaBunny



Series: Fenders Ficlets [16]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders Was Right, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fenders, Fenris Has Issues, I has so much feels about this fic im sorry dudes, M/M, Purring Elves, Red Hawke (Dragon Age), brief reference to non-con, fenris centric, snapshots of Fenris' past, the healer heals more than the healer realises, the healer needs to heal the hurt whether its in the circle or in his enemy's eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 03:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18512980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovaBunny/pseuds/DovaBunny
Summary: Fenris had always felt like he was broken. His own pain caused him to hurt those around him, even as he wanted to draw them close. He had all but accepted this until he found his healing in the most unlikely of places - in himself. With the patience and kindness of a most unlikely friend.OR 5 Times Fenris Didn't Have a Voice and One Time He Did_ _ _For mhandersmyheart who gave me the prompt on Tumblr: "There is somethign magical about Fenris' eyes. Logically speaking, Anders isn't supposed to feel this way about him, but here we are".And here we are. It turned into a whole damn fic. I hope you like it xx





	1. Failure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [handersmyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handersmyheart/gifts).



Fenris wasn’t good with words.

Which was an ironic turn from how eloquently articular he held himself as Danarius’ bodyguard and, at times, spy. In contrast, when it came to voicing his personal feelings, wants, thoughts, and opinions he stuttered, stumbled, couldn’t find the right words, and when he did find the words to speak - they did more harm than good. As an infant stumbles and falls while they learn to walk, so Fenris’ tongue stumbled, learning to crawl in the hopes that one day he’d be able to run like anyone else.

It was a strange and almost bittersweet thought that his incompetence in letting his words have the intended effect, was as much a sign of the fact that he was not free, as was his hiding in his former master’s abandoned mansion. Because of this – his fear of recapture and his fear of people knowing just how enslaved his mind still was – he isolated himself from the free men outside his door, those who didn’t pause to think over their word choice, didn’t have to keep reminding themselves to stop looking over their shoulder and instead engage in conversation, who didn’t hold their tongue in fear of unintended consequences.

In his own way Fenris tried to reach out to each of their small gang of misfits. They were the closest to friends he had ever had, and he so desperately wanted to embrace every small freedom he could reach.

With Aveline it was surprisingly the easiest. She regularly requested him to accompany her and her guards to investigate slaver activity and to bust slaver operations. She appreciated his skill in battle, wasn’t one for idle chatter, and her words held no ulterior motive. He liked to think they got along well.

With Varric he could fall back on his knowledge of politics and culture in easy conversation. For nights where Fenris didn’t want to be alone, but didn’t want to talk either, the dwarf always had a story to tell. How much, if any of it, was true - was irrelevant. Varric never judged him for being unintentionally rude or harsh, and would always keep the conversation going.

Sebastian had taught him about faith, the Maker’s mercy, and Andraste’s love. Things that were all foreign, yet things he really wanted to believe in. So, he went, they talked, they debated, he listened, and he learned. Most of all, the brother taught him to talk to the Maker - to have private conversations where he could argue, curse, plead, and question without fear of embarrassment.

With Isabela it had been gambling. She could cheat and play with the best of them, but Fenris was no novice. He had stood vigil at countless games where slimy magisters and over-zealous upstarts had each tried to outsmart one another. There was no trick he didn’t know, and his absolute perfect ‘wicked grace face’ had no equal amongst their challengers. Together they bled every mercenary and sailor who dared accept their challenge to a game of cards dry of every penny they had.

With Merrill… well. He didn’t really know what to do with the seemingly innocent little blood mage. But he had overheard her telling Hawke how much she liked tea, especially making her own, and how she had taken to using yarn to track her way around Kirkwall so she won’t get lost. If she found small packets of fragrant tea leaves or new balls of yarn in her home after Fenris had mysteriously stopped by and left without any apparent purpose, she didn't say a word. But her warm smile was enough.

Then there was Anders…

He had been taken with the mage soon after meeting, secretly drawn in by the tales Isabela and Varric told of the notorious circle runaway and elusive former warden. He jealously hoarded every bit of information he learned about the mage, whispers in Darktown about their beloved healer, grumblings of Hawke to Aveline, soft conversations between Anders and a stray cat. The man demanded his freedom and fought to share it, and even though he had trouble showing it - the former slave in him admired that deeply.

Anders was an odd man - so different from any mage he had ever met. He was complicated, yet simple; driven, yet withdrawn; tortured, yet determined. He piqued Fenris’ curiosity and concern, and the more he learned, the more similar he found them, the more he wanted to know.

That, however, was where Fenris failed most of all, for each time he tried to reach out to the mage - his words seemed to come out wrong, and each time the mage misunderstood him. Too often his attempts at approaching the mage in conversation left them both angry and hurt - the distance between them only gaining ground.

_***_

_“Did I hear correctly? You are an… abomination?” His words came from a deep place of shock and disgust, but more the former than the latter to his surprise, after hearing from Sebastian what had happened. Surely this couldn’t be true? Fenris had seen many abominations over his life, and Anders was no monster.  Anders was a good man, a healer, a trusted companion...right?_

_“Why don’t you shout? I don’t think everyone heard you!” Anders snapped back._

_Fenris felt his hackles rise at the hostile response - he was just trying to understand, trying to make sense, but Anders seemed to always see accusation instead. “Do you see yourself as harmless, then?” he tried again. “An abomination who would never harm anyone?” he needed to know, needed to understand how the mage saw himself and whether he was safe to be around. Whether Anders himself was safe._

_But again Anders seemed to only hear insult, only felt defensive anger, and Fenris retaliated in equal measure and hated himself for it._

_***_

_“Why was your friend made tranquil? Do you know?” When Fenris had heard what happened from Varric, it had been hard for the stoic elf to keep his concern and curiosity in check, least it be noticed by the dwarf’s watchful eyes which always seemed to see much more than was even there. He had wanted to ask Anders while alone, but the mage avoided him at every turn. When he finally did have the chance, hanging back while out traipsing with Hawke around Kirkwall, he had foolishly held out hope that maybe this conversation would turn out different, that Fenris could offer support and learn more about Anders and the circles’ seemingly hypocritical practices (although Sebastian would argue otherwise). He was wrong._

_“No. And it doesn’t matter. Nobody deserves that.”_

_The faces of laughing Magisters drunk on blood magic drained from slaves whose still-warm bodies lay on the tiles flashed before his eyes, Hadriana’s evil laughter rang in his memory as she whipped him to an inch of his life and made him thank her for it. “I know some mages who deserve that,” he mumbled, more to himself._

_An attempt to share history, to open up and talk, again squandered because he just could never say the right thing._

_“Really?” the mage clapped back, the bitterness clear in his voice even as he held back. “Perhaps they should start making slaves Tranquil - then they couldn’t dream of escaping! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”_

_That shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did._

_***_

_“Is there something you want, Anders.” Fenris muttered at the mage. He has still bitter from their last encounter, further fueled by his frustration at his own incompetence. What did the mage want now, to make fun of him? To insult him? To make him say things that will remind him how inferior he is to any other free man?_

_“You really don’t have the temperament for a slave,” the mage said curiously. Well… that wasn’t what I expected. The mage’s toned was almost... friendly. But Fenris had learned the hard way by now not to trust hope._

_“Is that a compliment or an insult?” he asked suspiciously._

_“I’m just wondering how you master didn’t kill you.” Somehow that sounded more like a tease than wishful thinking._

_“How have the templars not killed_ you _?”_

_“I’m charming.”_

_A quirk, a small thing, tugging at the corner of his lips. Fool mage. When he turned to look at the man, he could've sworn the Anders’ head whipping the other way was supposed to suggest he hadn’t been watching him. Fenris might’ve believed it, if it wasn’t for a small smile on the mage’s lips._

_Hope. A small thing, tugging at the corners of a place inside him he had long thought dead._

_***_

_Sometimes they had conversations where, if an stranger had been listening he might’ve thought they were two friends in deep conversation, and sometimes it was even playful and friendly._

_“Did you ever think about killing yourself?”_

_“I could ask you the same thing.”_

_“I’m serious. To get out of slavery to escape Danarius.. Don’t tell me you never thought about it.”_

_“I did not. To kill yourself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.”_

_“You… believe that?” the surprise in the mage’s voice clear._

_“I try to. Some things must be worse than slavery.”_

_“Somethings are worse than death.”_

_-_

_“You should have lived in Tevinter. You’d be happier there.” Fenris thought out loud._

_“You’re probably right.”_

_“There, your magic would be a mark of honour. Apprenticed to the right magister, you would do well.”_

_“Is there a down side?”_

_“Only if you’re bothered by owning a few slaves and performing the occasional blood ritual.”_

_“So they all do those things?” the tinge of disgust in the mage’s voice shouldn’t have eased him as much as it did._

_-_

_“Sour ale, vomit, and the smell of desperation.” Fenris grumbled._

_“And this is one of the better taverns around here.”_

_“They let you in. It can’t be that much better”_

-

But still a gap remained between them that Fenris - try as he might - just couldn’t breach. Whether it was incompetence, cowardice, or both, the mage remained sometime he could see but couldn’t touch.

Like watching a beautiful, delicate flower bloom in the dead of winter - strong in the face of the odds - but wilting at moment’s harsh touch. Even though he could see so much of himself in those pained but bright honey brown eyes, always so kind, he had to accept that he would never bridge that gap to let the mage know there was someone who understood and cared.


	2. Seeing

Fenris had always known eyes can say a lot more than our lips are able. They show fear, love, anger, resentment, disgust, acceptance, regret…

There had been a pair of eyes that had followed him for years in his dreams. It was the anguished face of a woman, eyes too much like his own to suspect a lover or stranger. They looked at him as she was being dragged away, while he stood and watched.

Who was she? A sister? No, too old. ...a mother?

Even as a slave he would see her face everywhere, mostly in his dreams but sometimes it felt like they were watching from a crowd or a darkened alley. It always felt like she was trying so hard to tell him something with only her intense gaze. Every time he saw them he was overcome with a deep sense of wanting to call to her, to reach out, to- ...he wasn’t sure what. All he knew is that those eyes held so many secrets he desperately wanted to know.

***

“Trash...trash...keep...trash….”

Fenris had followed Hawke back to Anders’ clinic after he had almost killed that mage girl. For a moment Fenris had actually been afraid of Anders. Of Justice. But then the demon receded and the mage, _the man_ , returned. The mage had run away in anguish.

When they investigated the slaughter around them they had found proof of Anders’ supposed mad ravings - there really was a proposed tranquil solution. But there was also hope, both Meredith and the chantry had rejected the proposal.

Fenris had wanted to be the one to go to him. He wanted to be the one to gently approach the scared and hurting mage, to tell him the good news and make sure he was alright. But as with so many things, it was Hawke that got that honour while Fenris just stood in the shadows behind him, listening to the man berate himself worse than Fenris had ever done.

“You had been right all along. I am a monster.” Anders nearly sobbed, his beautiful face etched in sorrow and pain. Hawke seemed unmoved.

Fenris couldn’t help it, he couldn’t hold back on his clumsy attempt to be there for the man. “Maybe it is time to realise your limitations?” Fenris suggested as politely as he could.

“Yes, fine! Kick me while I’m down!” Anders lashed out, the anguish of a moment ago flipping to anger. “Clearly you’re right about everything!”

Fenris sighed, but took a step back, not having realised he had even stepped forward from the shadows of the clinic. “It was a suggestion, not a condemnation.”

Once again, Fenris had tried, and failed, to have his words do what others managed so effortlessly. He had wanted to comfort the mage, to gently advise him that realising his limitations as a man and even a mage was okay, not to be so harsh on himself, and to realise he wasn’t alone. Instead his words hurt, wounding a wounded man further when that was the last thing he wanted.

-  - -

Fenris’ almost ashamed withdrawal, like a dog who had been yelled at (and wasn’t that just the likeness), gave Anders pause. He would have expected the mage-hating elf to seize the moment further, to gloat and remind him how weak he is, what an abomination he is.

Instead, the elf had… what exactly? He wasn’t sure.

His attention turned back to Hawke, Hawke who had gone with him, although somewhat reluctantly, and now seemed more irritated than sympathetic even though their words were intended to comfort, or so he assumed.

 “I am dangerous,” he said in defeat. “Unstable. Everything the templars say. How can I fight for the freedom of mages when I am the example of the worst that freedom brings?” His tone and heart equally bitter and brittle. “How can I even trust myself to heal anymore?”

“So, you’re just going to run away again?” Hawke’s voice was a tad harder than a moment before; an accusation in his tone more than his words. And wasn’t that just Hawke? Always saying what people wanted to hear. But he knew Hawke could also smile and lie to your face and you’d feel flattered.

“Maybe it's for the best if I do…”

A sudden movement over Hawke’s shoulder, the sound of a barefoot gripping the dirty floor in a halted shuffle. Anders looked up to see Fenris’ eyes, wider and more bare than he had ever seen them. His heart clenched uncomfortably at the sight; at the implication.

This upset the elf. Greatly. But… why? How?

Before him stood a man who would tell anyone the Darktown healer was one of his best friends. Yet, in his time of need and defeat, it was not his famed honeyed words where Anders’ broken and battered heart found comfort, but in the silent look of naked concern and anguish on his supposed enemy’s usually stoic face. Fenris looked like he desperately wanted to say something, not knowing his eyes said more than his lips could.

Anders stayed.


	3. Deaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this chapter is a doozy. 
> 
> I figured that much of Fenris' anger stems from his inability to deal with his pain. But what if it was all pushed to breaking point? Anders had already gone and scratched at the surface without meaning to, in this chapter it all comes crashing down. 
> 
> Just a note: Fenris doesn't physically harm Anders. It'll make sense as you read on, and even more in the next chapter with Anders' view. 
> 
> Heads Up: Quick reference to child abuse and blood magic ahead.

Leto obediently followed the two guards down a long corridor of cold marble, the emblem of Danarius’ house on their armour in blood red and gold, polished to a perfect mirror sheen. There was no use in collaring him or even tying him up as they led him. He had wanted this; fought for it. He had left behind his mother and sister - who he loved more than anything in the world - and fought to free them, giving himself up to Master Danarius to be made into a ‘living weapon’. He still wasn’t sure what that meant, supposedly a great honour for a young slave. He had always been a brave, even brash child, but now he fought to keep himself distracted to stave off the anxiety clawing at his throat – the fear of the unknown.

Too soon but not soon enough they reached a large laboratory. In the center were two large slabs of black marble, various tools were presented in trays by meek silent slaves. Around the room was bookcases, desks, large sheets of paper with patterns, vials and potions, and even more tools. He shivered as he watched slaves carry in ritualistic knives magisters favoured when doing blood magic. What scared him most of all, was the enchanted bowls - much larger than the ones usually used. In fact, Leto would bed they were more than large enough to catch all the blood of an entire body being drained.

He couldn’t help it, he felt his hands start to quiver. To hide it he held his head down and clasped his hands together. He obediently followed to a cage in the corner and crawled inside when the latch was opened to him. It was only when it closed behind him that he noticed that there was a girl in there with him. She was silent, as all good slaves were, and about his age.

Why was she here? Had she won as well? But that was not possible, Leto had killed every opponent. Then who-

“The girl - she’s a pretty one. Would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” an unknown magister said to Danarius as the two older men approached the cages.

“One would think, but she’s the product of a foolish Altus’ relations with a slave. Shameful. The man practically threw her at me when I mentioned I might need subjects for my experiments.”

The second magister hummed thoughtfully, before turning to walk with Danarius to inspect the set up at the centre of the room. Once their eyes were averted Leto became aware of how truly terrified he was. His heart was pounding in his throat, his hands shaking even more.

“But surely,” the other magister said again, throwing a quick hungry glance back at the girl who sat obediently next to him. “A slave who can take orders is as good as any other?”

Leto almost startled when he felt something touch his hand. He turned to see scared, but kind eyes looking at him. They were a soft blue, calm and beautiful. She gave him a small smile as she took his shaking hand. A gesture of comfort, so strange yet so familiar.

How could she try to comfort him in a time like this? Didn’t she realise what was happening? How was she not as terrified as he was!

“Not this one,” Danarius responded. “She’s deaf.”

 

***

 

Fenris was furious, his anger rolling off him in waves, lighting up every nerve in his body till it felt like he would rip himself apart in his rage.

Of course the mage had been there when he had went to face his demons. Of course the last man he wanted to see him at his worst was there to witness him face Hadriana. The healer had stood by while he spat his hatred of magic and all who carry its curse. He had been cruel. While usually his words hurt despite not being his intention, now his words were crafted in anger, aimed to hurt as much as he was hurting.

“May she rot! And all the other mages with her,” he growled and spat, uncaring of Anders and Merrill who had stood by him, fought for him, cared for him, and protected him.

His vitriol was born of a lifetime of pain and oppression, of the burden of guilt at his incompetence as a free man and crippling shame for his blind obedience in his slavery - all colliding at once. He wanted to scream till he lost his voice. He wanted to rip magic and its vile corruption from this world with his bare hands!

“What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?!”

He has stormed off, wanting to be alone, wanting to be free from all these reminders. Wanting to be free.

Then what had he gone and done? He had gone and _apologised_. To _Hawke_. At the very least, Hawke had accompanied him; Fenris owed him a debt.

Hawke had listened, if reluctantly, but at that moment Fenris was too blind to see. He wasn’t even sure why he was here! He just knew he needed- … he needed-.... _Something_. Anything!

“It’s a sickness - this _hate_. This dark growth inside me I can’t ever get rid of! And they put it there!”

Hawke then decided what Fenris needed. Fenris needed distraction. He had done well in crushing that bitch’s heart, and now there was no more need for him to go ‘raging and yelling like a rabid dog’. Hawke had all but slammed him against the wall and then he was on the stunned elf with a hunger born of impatience, but somehow also a personal triumph.

And Fenris let Hawke do it.

 And now he was here, slamming his mansion’s door so hard behind him the frame cracked, the windows shook and somewhere glass broke. He cursed and growled as he grabbed the first thing he saw - an old ornate vase - and tossed it across the room with a snarl at full speed, relishing in the way it crashed and shattered.

It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Nothing would quell this fire, this deep consuming _hate_ that was suffocating him. Hate for Danarius, for Hadriana, for Tevinter and its slavery, for Hawke for using him, for allowing Hawke to use him, for his own weakness, for himself…

Hawke had felt wrong. It had all felt wrong. Hands too hard, kisses with more teeth than lips, pushes to the bed too heavy-handed. But he had gone. Willingly. Needing something to distract him, something to let himself go in. But instead of finding what he needed - what Hawke had decided he needed - he found only further hurt and confusion. He had submitted to the demands of another without even considering his own. Like a slave.

His clothes were haphazardly put back on, his cheeks stained with dust and tear streaks he wasn’t even aware of. He had stepped in a piece of glass somewhere along the way, leaving bloodied prints, not giving a damn. In fact, he welcomed the pain. If there was no one or nothing left to destroy, he would turn that aggression on himself.

It was only when he reached the top of the stairs that he noticed a light coming from his room. He growled further, pulling his sword out, itching for a fight with whoever was foolish enough to approach a cornered, wounded wild animal.

He had not expected the scene he found.

His room was warm, comfortably so, an indication that his fireplace had been lit for hours. Before the fire sat Anders. He had his staff and coat off and to the side, making him look small and almost vulnerable. Unarmed and harmless.

Weak.

But worst of all - worse than the foolish maker-cursed abomination thinking he could come and invite himself into Fenris’ home, make himself comfortable, and stay while Fenris wasn’t even there - worst of all was the look of concern and sympathy.

 _Bah!_ He didn’t want pity! He didn’t need anyone’s pity, least of all a mage’s! He doesn’t need to be coddled or distracted - he needs… an outlet.

And he had found one.

So, he yelled.

He raged and yelled and threatened the mage, channeling years of anger and hate at this single man who now saw as the single embodiment of the curse on Thedas - magic. He lit up his brands brighter than he ever had and spat curses that would make Isabela flinch. But Anders - the healer sat silently, listening, submitting to the abuse Fenris threw at him.

It went on for minutes, maybe even hours. It was only Fenris finally felt like his system had been purged of years of hateful bile, a poison that had been suffocating and drowning him, his knuckles bloodied and broken from striking the wall, his brands burning from their harsh use, that he promptly dropped to his knees, threw up till there was nothing left but painful dry heaving and gasping, and passed out.

He embraced the numb darkness like a lover.

When he woke up, it was to the gentle song of the first bird heralding the dawn. The sun was still long from up, but the sky was starting to bleed into colour outside his windows. The next thing he realised was that he was in bed. His own bed. But the bedding was clean, as was he. The gentle smell of elfroot and lavender caressed his senses and he looked down to see his hands carefully bandaged, a slight sheen on his skin around his brands like an ointment had been applied. Where he would have expected pain and burns, there was soothing coolness that calmed his emotional and physical exhaustion.

To his left, on his nightstand, stood a glass, a jug of water, two health potions and a rejuvenation potion.

To his right…

The mage, Anders, was fast asleep, slumped against the bed on the floor, his head resting on his folded arm while his other reached towards him on the covers - where Fenris’ own hand was, on top of the mages’.

He froze in place as his memories became clear through the fog of his mind, struggling to make sense of the scene before him. Anders was dressed only in a simple linen shirt and breeches, his hair messy. Next to him was his medicine pouch he had started taking along on trips when Fenris accompanied them, as the elf didn’t want magical healing, so that Anders could tend to his injuries without magic.

Then he remembered the night before. How the man had sat submissively and let Fenris purge this poison from his soul and body. Not once did fight back, even as Fenris tried his best to provoke him. He didn’t leave, didn’t tell him to keep quiet, didn’t take advantage of him, didn’t use magic, and even slept on the dirty floor instead of on the bed which was large enough.

He gave Fenris what the elf needed - not commands or more control, but to let the elf decide for himself.  Despite everything Fenris had thrown at him (literally too, good thing the mage was soberer than he was and had quick reflexes for dodging pottery), Anders had remained.

His healer. His friend.

Deaf to words the mage must have known were not aimed at the man, but at the past, at wrongs and pains. Deaf to words that might be misunderstood or would hurt as they were intended. Deaf ears, but soft hands.

When Fenris stirred Anders startled awake. He awkwardly cleared his throat, apologised for falling asleep (which just baffled Fenris more), then asked how Fenris was doing. He left shortly after, leaving Fenris with extra ointment and bandages, instructions to drink lots of water, take his potions, and only stick to gentle broth for two days, and no alcohol for five days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that Fenris didn't physically assualt Anders. Yes, okay, he tossed some items at him, but nothing struck him. Our healer is brave but not an idiot.


	4. Purr

Slaves with children were rarely accommodated. Their master might be persuaded to tolerate their presence, with the assurance that they would start to work in his or her household as soon as possible. Even then, it was no luxury.

Slaves commonly shared living quarters, where children would not be supplied with their own bedding. As such, children usually slept on their parents’ chests or snuggled up tightly next to them until they grew too big, and then shared a bedroll between three or four of them, and typically raised themselves till they were old enough to join their parents in working for their master. They were always warned and told to not be seen or heard, and under no circumstances to bother their parents while they work.

This, of course, didn’t mean the elven slaves didn’t love their children. On the contrary, elves by nature are a collectivistic people who find identity and comfort around friends and family. But again, this was just a luxury slaves couldn’t afford.

But there was one parental comfort. At bedtime the kids would crawl up to lay on their mom or dad’s chest before drifting off, the cot usually too narrow to lay next to them, and the shared quarters to silent to speak. Luckily, in these precious moments there was no need for words, as the parents’ warm steady comforting purr soothed and lulled away the day’s worries, till the little one’s weak stuttered purrs joined in.

It was not a lot, but it was a few moments of peace, safety, and love.

***

The first time it happened, Anders had not been prepared.

He had woken up in their shared tent while out on a quest with Hawke, to find the fearsome elven warrior curled up on his chest. The elf seemed to be sound asleep, which was assuring but also odd because Fenris had always had trouble sleeping.

After the night he had gone to Fenris’ mansion, things have been different between them. He had gone because he remembered how Fenris’ silent presence had helped him when he was at his lowest, and he had hoped to return the favour. He had expected the elf to be upset, he had expected to quietly sit and listen, or just sit in silence together. He did not expect the elf to fall apart the way he did. His heart nearly broke that night as he bore witness to the real raw uncensored pain the elf had carried with him for so long, he could only wish he had done enough to help his friend. Because that is what they were now - friends.

Fenris had isolated himself for a week before emerging from the mansion again. His first stop? The clinic. He had come with a small basket of food and the empty potion bottles. When he saw how busy Anders was, he patiently sat in the corner and just watched. Anders could never explain how much strength and comfort he drew from Fenris’ gentle presence.

He had been visiting the clinic at least once a week for a sleeping potion. The weekly visits soon turned to weekly lunch as Fenris started to repay the “skinny fool mage” in food - which the stubborn elf sat and watched him eat, knowing Anders would give it away otherwise.

But a cautious, fragile, growing friendship between two lonely broken men was hardly an explanation for seeing the proud, fearless warrior curled up so small on his chest. Try as he might, Anders couldn’t understand why-

Then he heard it. A weak stuttered purr, barely audible.

A sound Fenris was sure he lost along with his memories, as elf children learn to purr from cuddling with their parents or someone they feel safe and loved with.

Anders’ own heart skipped a beat, his eyes prickling till silent tears of happiness flowed for this man, this brave elf who was so much stronger than he knew. Anders carefully bundled the warm ball of elf into his arms and held him tight.

Listening to that small, weak purr grow loud and steady.


	5. Vulnerability

An odd sensation, a vaguely familiar sound he couldn’t quite place. A gentle comforting low rumble in his chest. Soothing. A feeling of warms, safety, and belonging wraps around him like a warm fur on a cold night.

Creeping reminders of the world around him started to worm themselves into his consciousness until he slowly opens his eyes.

Various things made themselves known almost immediately.

_Mission. Camp. Tent. Anders._

_Purring._

_My purring._

_Curled up on the mage’s chest in his arms._

Said purring chokes to an abrupt halt as he shoots up, elbowing the unsuspecting mage in the gut in his rushed efforts to get as far away from this situation as possible.

No. How could he have allowed this? This is not okay! Fenris will not allow himself to repeat the mistake of his past. Will never again allow himself to be…

 _Vulnerable_.

___________

The brave, fearless warrior he was crafted to be, Fenris was terrified when the fog warriors took him in. A part of him will forever wish they’d rather killed him when they found him standing alone at the docks, looking lost and abandoned.

Which, he suppose, he was.

But there had been something so magnetic about them. From how Bognar, the giant of a warrior, had approached him with a soft cautious smile. Bognar had first introduced himself in Tevene, and when Fenris frowned, he tried Trade too. Not once did they take his weapon from him, or even let him trail behind. No, he was an equal from the first moment he stepped into their village. Even before they knew him.

A tradition of the Fog Warriors that surprised him was their sleeping arrangements. Only bound couples were given their own hut, all the unbound singletons usually celebrated their declaration to bind themselves to one another by building the hut for them.

All the rest of them slept together in what could only be described as a large pile in the Long House on heaps of blankets and furrs and pillows that were haphazardly strewn about when it came time to sleep. On warm nights, they would even drag some bedrolls outside and sleep under the stars together.

For someone who had been accustomed to sleeping alone the cold floor, a pallet, (or - when his master was feeling generous - next to his master) this was very uncomfortable. But before he could sneak off to a dark corner of the large hall with its warm interior of wood, furr, and fire, Bognar had slung an arm around his shoulder and planted him right in the middle of the pile.

He didn’t sleep a wink the first three nights, finally passing out by the fourth.

A further interesting practice of the Fog Warriors is that, despite their reputations of being heartless killers, they were very open with their affections and care. If one of the unbound had lost a friend or loved on, or had been injured, all the rest would use the best pillows and furr to make them a bed and arrange themselves snuggled around the person. Comfort, care, and support were all foreign concepts to the lost slave.

 _Lost_ , not _former_ , not yet.

One night, about two months after they had found him standing alone at the docks while his master fled, a week since he had picked up his sword again to fight alongside them when a Qunari unit threatened their farmlands, something happened that would later prove a major turning point in his quest for freedom. The oldest of the village got up just as everyone was settling in for dinner in the dining hall, dished up the first bowl, and brought it over to Fenris while everyone stared in awe. It was a great honour, a sign of deep respect, for the eldest to dish up herself, and then to serve it to another.

Fenris’ hands trembled as he took the bowl from her fragile hands, not having the words to convey his feelings. It was at that moment that a young boy broke the silence, asking Fenris what it was like being a slave. It had been a question everyone skirted around, and a topic he avoided at all costs. Yet, here, with the rapt attention and warmth of those around him, he finally spoke. And when he started, it was hard to stop. His words were still largely emotionless, but seeing the expressions around him, it was the first time he truly realised that something was really wrong - that what happened to him was wrong.

That night by the time he entered the Long House, a warm cozy nest of furrs and pillows was waiting for him. A bit reluctantly, he was fussed over until he settled, after which the rest settled around him. The young boy from before curled around his head like a cat, and Bognar - a warrior so large and fierce he had seen the man break both a Qunari’s horns with his bare hands - tucked himself into Fenris’ side. Once they were all settled, it felt like there was barely an inch of his body that wasn’t in contact with another, even if it was an outstretched hand around his wrist or a head pillowed on his thigh. Fenris had never slept so soundly in his life.

He felt safe, warm, wanted. And they taught him it was okay to want those things; to need them. It was okay to be…

Vulnerable.

 

When he later slaughtered them his friends didn’t fight back. For years he deeply wished they did, that they had ended him as he deserved. Instead they just had a sad look of acceptance on their faces as he cut them down.

It was his fault. His eyes stung from blood, tears, and smoke - his tears and their blood and the smoke of the lives he destroyed - as he ran as fast as his legs could carry him. It was his fault. He had allowed himself to get attached, to get too close. He let his guard down and let them in.

He would never make that mistake again. Never again will he let his walls down and let someone in, not if he truly cared about them. His vulnerability led to their destruction. It was a burden that would pain him for years, one he will carry gladly in his guilt.

He will never again allow himself to be vulnerable.

-

Yet, that was what had happened. Somehow, without his intention or knowing, the mage had started to crawl in under his skin. He found himself caring about the man, sitting closer to him than strictly necessary, watching him in battle to ensure his safety, and scolding him for neglecting himself if he saw the mage had lost even more weight, not taking any excuses as he pushed a bowl of porridge with apple slices into the man’s hands.

He had sought out the mage in his sleep, drawn to him like he had been drawn to the Fog Warriors - starving for even a moment’s tenderness. His body had known what he wanted better than his mind did, and had made him vulnerable once more to someone he wanted to protect.

And now it wasn’t shame that clawed at his throat, but guilt and fear. He won’t allow himself to hurt Anders, he can’t! Doesn’t the mage see by now that he was dangerous? That he was not worthy of anything more than kind but platonic companionship? His words hurt when he wished they would heal, his hand scratched when he wished to reach out, and his closeness brought harm instead of love.

No, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something were to happen to Anders. Anything but that. Danarius’ spies could abduct the mage to get to him, the man could be hurt by another of Fenris’ outbursts or careless words, driving the man to further self-destruct as he sometimes seemed driven to do with his long hours of work without sleep or food. Fenris is not a good man, but even he won’t be so selfish as to pull the mage closer as he so desperately wants to, knowing it would only end in disaster.

So, he stayed away; he avoided and ignored. Slowly but surely the mage seemed to accept this. His hopeful kind smile that usually greeted him when Fenris walked into the room dimmed, the soft conversation while following Hawke around grew quieter in his silence, and soon enough the man withdrew until all that was left was a sad look of acceptance.

One Fenris recognised. The expression was burned into his memory along with tears, blood, and smoke.

Tried as he may, it seems Fenris had hurt Anders anyway. It seems that was all he could do to those he cared about.

____

Anders knew that he was stomping and pouting childishly, but he was alone in his clinic so he allowed himself that little outlet for his anger and worry. As he mashed some elfroot with way more aggression that was necessary, he thought back on Varric’s guilty face.

_“Hey Blondie, you got any health potions to spare? Think we’re going to need them.”_

_Anders looked around, confused as to why the dwarf had come alone. Usually Hawke was the one demanding free potions. “For my favourite Dwarf? Anything,” he smiled with a wink. “Hawke dragging you out to the coast again?”_

_The silence and foot shuffling behind him had Anders turning back. “Varric?”_

_“Agha, I hate lying to you Blondie. It’s not Hawke, its Fenris. He’s asked us to go with him to meet his sister. He suspects a trap, but is determined to face his sister or Danarius - whichever it is. I just want to be prepared.”_

_“Why didn’t you just say so!  Let me just get my staff and w-”_

_“Anders, wait-”_

_The use of his name coming from Varric gave him pause. Varric always called him Blondie. “Varric, this is going to be potentially a very dangerous meeting. You’ll need a healer!” A creeping anxiety started crawling up his chest._

_“Fenris insisted you not be there,” Varric looked at him with true regret. “Of course I suggested you come, but he specifically told me not to tell you.”_

_“But…” Anders felt the wind leave his lungs. He knew something between them had changed but he had hoped the elf at least found him still worth something at least, even if it is just healing. But it seems the elf really did see him as useless. Weak, wasn’t that what he had called him once?_

_“Why?” he asked more to himself._

_“I don’t know. Broody said something about not allowing history to repeat itself, especially if Danarius is there to meet us.”_

Anders had silently handed over his strongest health potions and some extra other boosts and watched the dwarf leave. After his door closed it took him a few long moments for it to fully settle in. His mood shifted between anger at the stubborn elf for not letting him help, to heart-wrenching sadness because he could only imagine how scared but brave Fenris should be feeling to finally face his tiger, but most of all worry - worry that he would never see him again, that he will hear how the magister and his guards overpowered them and dragged the elf away in chains, back to his past he fought so Maker damn hard to escape.

Anders spent hours like that, pacing, muttering, cursing, crushing poor unsuspecting herbs to dust, and when he was done restocking his potions, and couldn’t find it in himself to sit and focus on his manifesto, he turned to stripping all the cots and gathering all old bandages to wash - very aggressively in just too-warm water.

It was probably near the eleventh bell at night when there was a soft but determined knock at his door. Anders peered around where he has hanging the last of the clean linen up to dry, his hair a loose clammy mess and shirtless as his shirt had taken the brunt of his angry washing and ended up needing a wash too.

“The clinic is closed, is this an emergency?”

Silence.

He frowned and muttered to himself about not wanting to be bothered - not tonight - as he pushed his hair out of his face. He grabbed his coat and threw it over his shoulders to appear at least somewhat decent, before letting out one last curse and opening the door…

To find Fenris standing there.

Fenris was out of his usual armour, unarmed, in a simple tunic and leggings. His big usually bright eyes were red, but his jaw was set. Anders the healer spotted a few dark bruises and cuts, but Anders the friend saw someone he deeply cared for who needed him now. Fenris looked miserable, but determined. Hurt, but whole. 

Vulnerable, but undefeated.

“Oh Fen…” Anders closed the distance between them and pulled the elf into his arms, an embrace immediately returned as Fenris wrapped his arms around his naked torso under his coat and clung to him. The anger, the worry, and feelings of rejection all melted away in the desperate way the brave warrior silently held Anders as if he were the last thing keeping him together.

____

No words were said that night, there was no need for it. It was probably one of the things Fenris lo-… _appreciated_ most about Anders. Anders seemed to hear what he wanted to say, even when his words failed him, and even when he didn’t even use words at all.

Anders didn’t yell at him for pushing him away, and didn’t demand explanations he didn’t know how to give. Anders just held him, curled up on a cramped little cot at the back of the Darktown healer’s clinic.

A sanctum of healing and salvation, wasn’t that what Anders called it?

He wondered if the healer knew how true those words were, for it was here that Fenris finally embraced his own healing of old, deep wounds, and salvation from his past.

They both fell asleep to Fenris’ strong, deep purring.

He stopped running, faced his tiger, and walked away with his shackles finally broken.

He stopped running, faced his fear, and finally allowed himself to be vulnerable again.

Both took strength and bravery he didn’t know he had.

He had to face his past, purge the poison, learn to trust, and now he was learning to live.


	6. Voice

Between the screaming, the rustling tumble of ash, the crackling and rumble of burning buildings, the earth still groaning under their feet with the impact of the devastating blast. Hawke was yelling, Merrill was frantically trying to talk to him, Varric was cursing, and Sebastian was crying out.

But it all rang as a deafening silence for Fenris as he watched the mage, the revolutionary, the healer, the friend, _his_ Anders, drop onto the crate with a morbid acceptance. The man fully expected to die for what he had done; for the final desperate act of a healer who could not heal the cancerous curse brought upon the mages by the Chantry and their ‘holy’ Templars’ oppressive delusions and suffocating dominance that corrupted and poisoned the circles and countless mages. A healer who had tried every alternative he could think of, but realised there could be no compromise - the sickness would have to be cut out, burned out, to save what was left of the body.

‘ _There is no greater devotion than to lay one's life at the Maker's feet. There is no better death than to take the blow for another._ ’ Was that not what the Grand Cleric Elthina had said?

 _‘There can be no peace’._ There never was peace; it was just that the common people’s eyes were blind to the violence and oppression that was locked away from them behind the walls of High Town.

His sweet Anders, whose eyes and hands and body always said so much, was now defeated and silent as the grave.

“What have you DONE!?” Hawke bellowed at Anders, breaking through to Fenris.

Fenris spots Hawke’s hand going for his daggers and flares his lyrium, dashing forward he put himself protectively between them, his greatsword gripped in a clear threat.

“You will not touch him,” Fenris growled, low and dangerous. His eyes narrowed with murderous intent as they glared through white bangs which hung more like deadly fangs.

“Step away, Fenris! This doesn’t concern you!”

“It most certainly does concern me!”

“Oh please! Don’t pretend you care about the abomination!”

“I’m not pretending,” he settled his feet firmly into the ground, ready to leap forward with his sword raised against the man he once foolishly thought of as his only friend.

“Fenris!” Sebastian’s eyes were filled with fury as he stepped forward. “Move aside and let Hawke do what is right. The mage deserves to die!”

“No.” he responded with a voice like cold steel.

“Why not!?” Sebastian raged, while Hawke adjusted his grip on his daggers, his eyes dark.

“Because I will not stand by and let you kill the man I love for being the only one brave enough in this whole Maker cursed city to realise that enough was enough!”

A wide-eyed silence fell over his companions, Merrill dropping her staff in shock. But he didn’t let that deter him.

“He tried, _really tried_ , but none of us paid enough attention to listen - to see - the corruption in this city, in the chantry, and most off all - in the Gallows. The templars and sisters in the chantry are nothing compared to the number of mages made tranquil, raped, and killed at the hands of the templars they ignorantly think they’re ‘protecting’. Had any of you even read his manifesto? Had any of you even bothered to really sit and listen to him? No, but if you needed a free potion or healing you didn’t hesitate.”

Another moment of silence, then Hawke snarled, “The templars will get what's coming to them IF there is truth to your accusations, but for now - Anders needs to pay for what he’s done! What I KNOW he’s done! You of all people should know not to trust a mage, Fenris!”

Fenris huffed, not lowering his sword for one second. “Funny then, as there’s no man or woman I trust more. He’s a healer, Hawke. He has blood on his hands – but who amongst us do not? Not a murderer. Killing him will only make people see him as a martyr, and see you as taking the Templar’s side. A mistake, I promise you.”

“Are you truly defending his actions, Fenris?!” Sebastian cried. “I thought you a man of intellect and righteousness, but it seems I was wrong. Maker have mercy on your soul, for I have none to spare to you or that monstrous filth. I have had enough of your lies and slander, it seems the mage has poisoned your mind, the work of his demon, no doubt.” the former brother stepped forward and knocked an arrow. “Hawke might not want his hands dirty, but I have no such reservation. Fenris, if you will not step aside, I will have no choice but to take you down too!”

“Ah ah… not so fast choir boy,” Varric interrupted.

Fenris had been so fixated on Hawke and Sebastian he hadn’t even noticed Varric, Aveline, Isabela, and Merrill coming to stand beside him, weapons sheathed but their stances defensive.

“There’s been enough bloodshed today,” little Merril spoke up defiantly. “Let’s not forget the real enemy we came here to face today, the enemy now headed for the Gallows and planning to kill every mage in there!”

“Come on, Garrett,” Aveline added. “You’re better than this. Real innocents are about to be killed if we don’t act. Anders’ actions are on his conscious, not yours.”

Sebastian watched incredulously as Hawke scanned his friends, knowing a losing battle when he sees one. With a growl Hawke flipped his daggers onto his back. “Fine. But I don’t ever want to see him again!”

“Fair enough,” Fenris replied, finally.

There was a gentle touch on his shoulder had him turning around. Behind him he could hear Varric and Hawke arguing with Sebastian, but he didn’t care, he knew his friends had his back.

“You…”

Anders looked at him with wide eyes, lips moving but words were failing him.

Fenris smirked and reached out wipe away a tear spilling over the mage’s cheek. “At a loss for words, mage? Never thought I’d see the day. Then again, never thought I’d see the day the chantry explodes, or that the man I love would try to get himself killed, a man who is equally delusional for thinking for even a second I would allow it.”

“You…” the mage cleared his throat, mouth moving wordlessly a few times as wide amber eyes stare in disbelief and adoration. “...love me?”

“Yes, Amatus. It seems I do,” he said with a soft smile. And I blame you for this most inconvenient development as you’re the one who healed my brokenness, just as you’re trying to heal the circles.”

His confidence wavered for a moment as Anders remained stunned near silent. “If you do not return my affections, that does not change the truth in my words, Anders. You may leave, I won’t let them harm you. I just want you safe.”

Anders gave a little breathy laugh that was part disbelief, part relief, and part overwhelming joy, then lunged at the elf, his hands cupping the warrior’s face as desperate lips met with his as if wanting to convey everything he couldn’t say in a kiss.

For once, it seemed their roles were reversed. Fenris had found his voice, had spoken from the heart, and his words had healed, protected, and were exactly perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks!
> 
> This has been sitting in my draft box for some time and I kept coming back to it. I couldn't figure out if it was good or trash. So now its yours - the reader's - whatever it is :)
> 
> That being said, omg pls let me know what you think? Feedback, comments, creative curses...all welcome. Prompts too.


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